


A Cliff’s Edge

by Twisha



Series: Grumpiest Nephilim Ever [1]
Category: Broadchurch, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Childhood Mental Illness, Crowley and Aziraphale not appearing in this fic, Gen, Grief Management, Grumpiest Nephilim Ever, Life Lessons, Mental Illness, Pre Armageddon, Self Harm, although they probably should have, child death (discussed), guess it’s up to Hardy, non specific mind control, parenting the Antichrist, self harm by a child, why bad things happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23307619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisha/pseuds/Twisha
Summary: A few weeks before his eleventh birthday, Adam Young goes on holiday in the beautiful seaside town of Broadchurch.But when the town gears up for a sobering anniversary, things begin to get a little...weird.Alec Hardy hates it when it gets weird.
Relationships: Pre Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller
Series: Grumpiest Nephilim Ever [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676689
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	1. View From Above

Despite what Miller thinks, he’s not a complete wanker.

Not entirely.

Now that he is no longer actively dying, he even allows himself to enjoy life a little. Savoring a good book or a movie night at Ellie’s every once in a while, even putting up with a small gathering whenever Daisy and Chloe manage to make it back from uni for a day or two. Hell, he doesn’t even begrudge other people the right to get together and make absolute fools of themselves…

Much.

But this… Hardy’s gaze lands on the incongruous form of Mark Latimer who, upon the occasion of the seventh anniversary of his son’s death has opted to don a particularly offensive Hawaiian shirt. 

And he’s carrying a ukulele.

Something is rotten in the town of Broadchurch, and Alec Hardy is going to get to the bottom of it. This is more than the usual “put a smiley face on it and pretend” small town obliviousness that he encountered upon arrival. This is different, almost as if reality were...bent just a little out of joint.

Where do you even find coconuts in Dorset, anyway?

He hears the scrape of gravel from behind him. A bright voice breaks over the mixed murmur of sea and crowd a hundred feet below. “I see you’ve got your shitface on this mornin.” The corner of his mouth twitches. 

“Nice to see you too, Miller.” He turns, and the brief comfort of her fond insult vanishes like a fading breeze. His eyes widen and his mouth gapes. “What are you Wearing?!”

It’s a...well he’s not sure what it is exactly. It’s the same eye blinding shade as her infamous overcoat, but that’s where the similarity ends. It’s some sort of dress...wrap...thing, made up out of a material that is just this side of see through. Her hair hangs loose down he back, kept away from her face by a wide, matching band, on to which is pinned an even more obnoxious flower. In her hand is an equally unnaturally colored beverage, topped by a tiny umbrella. 

“You like it?” she queries, extending her arms and rotates, allowing him to make out quite a few more curves than usual on his fellow detective. Not that he hadn’t noticed before exactly...he blinks. What was he thinking about again?

Searching for something to latch onto, his thoughts flit with his gaze down to the beach. It’s a perfect summer’s day, air shimmering and just now crossing that threshold from simply warm into truly hot. A brace of surfers catch a particularly perfect curl as it sweeps in. He detects the greasy scent of grilled hamburgers laid over the bite of charcoal. Some tourist children, three boys and a girl, pick their way along the shore with what looks to be Miller’s younger boy, eight years old and suddenly not so very wee. The salty breeze rolls out to sea, passing over an impromptu volleyball game. Paul Coats dives shirtless towards the sand…

Wait...what? 

“Isn’t Paul supposed to deliver the memorial address today?”

She steps closer, more to his side now than behind. “Yeah, ‘course,” she answers. “S’why he came back, after all. Beth asked it of him.” Her nose crinkles.

“Is he planning to put his shirt back on?” His voice rises in incredulity.

“I suppose,”’she concedes, but he’s had enough.

“Miller,”

She barrels over his interruption. “Of course, that’ll come after the limbo contest…”

“Miller!” He turns to face her, noting an odd glaze over her normally focused features that both shocks and frightens him. He’s never known her to lack for a sharp retort or careful observation. Part of what makes her so interest...infuriating. 

“And by then we should have the bonfire going and we can watch the hula dancers. Don’t pretend you didn’t see Daisy practicing! I know, you’re so proud…”

“Ellie!” he bellows, one hand closing around the wrist holding the libation, the other comes up with a loud ‘snap’ of his fingers, just inches in front of her nose. He’s moved far closer to her than is his wont, desperation overcoming his normal aversion to human contact. Thankfully, the sense come rushing back into her face. “Think about what you’re saying…” he pleads.

“Oh my God.” She glances around in dawning horror. “What the fuck, Hardy?” 

He’ll take it. “I don’t know, Miller,” his overprotective mind deftly sweeping over the mental image of Daisy clad in a hula costume made up of no more than a few strands of grass and less fabric than your average handkerchief. He runs a steadying hand down his face and sighs, fighting his emotions, preparing to ‘turn it off,’ so to speak, so he and Miller can do what they’re best at. “But I certainly intend to find out.”

“Too right,” she nods.

He smirks. Hardy and Miller are on the case.

“I’m going to get Fred.” We’ll meet you at the pier in ten,” she pronounces before shoving the remains of the garish drink into his hand and making her way down the path.

He gapes at the stupid umbrella for a full three seconds before definitely not whining,

“Oh, come ON!”


	2. BeachHead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellie goes to fetch Fred, and has a close encounter with one Adam Young.
> 
> If you could leave a quick review, that’d be awesome. I could really use the dopamine burst this week.
> 
> Enjoy!

Adam is, in Fred’s considered opinion, possibly the coolest boy in the whole, wide world. Not that the rest of the Them, aren’t cool, but there is just something so supernaturally awesome about Adam Young that, for once, Fred actually manages to feel like everything is going to be ok.

Adam doesn’t get angry at other children. He doesn’t melt down when things get too loud and confusing. Adam can ride his bike outside all day long and remember to be back by dark. He doesn’t make his mum cry by hiding in a tree all night and digging his fingernails so hard into his arms that it draws blood, and all for no better reason than losing a game of tag. 

Adam has never made the long trip to see that London doctor, the one mum hates, just so he can be told he’s “immature” and “acting out.” Which causes mum to jump to his defense, calling that mean doctor names she doesn’t even throw at Uncle Alec. Not even when the other detective decided to take care of Daisy’s mum when she got sick. She wears the exact same, disappointed face the whole way home. 

Adam has a dad who hasn’t killed anyone.

A wave of shameful awfulness rises up to consume Fred’s thoughts, as it always does whenever he least expects it. His shoulders shrink inward and he dangles at the edge of a dark precipice…

“Hey, Fred,” a warm shoulder nudges his, dragging him out of his dark thoughts. “Race ya to the barbecue?”

Fred grins. The luau is amazing! It’s just like that old movie they all watched with aunt Maggie. Fred especially liked that Annette Fruity-Cello lady.

Yeah. Adam Young is Fred’s personal guardian angel. If only he weren’t leaving tomorrow.

The Them arrive in Broadchurch on a gloomy Saturday that, no matter what the calendar says, has no business calling itself July. They proceed to take the town by storm, quickly forming a new pecking order among the youngest residents. All of a sudden, Sophia Appleberry speaks softly instead of her customary snapping. Fred’s ears no longer ring when she’s around. Jason Wilks even apologizes for breaking Fred’s skateboard, gifting him the older boy’s brand new bike in recompense! Even the usually dodgy Dorset weather proves to be no match for their enthusiasm, as the summer days unfold like a curtain of childhood’s theater.

And Fred is in the thick of it all. 

Mr. Lattimer provides them with a stack of mouth wateringly sticky ribs, and directs them towards a large picnic blanket has been spread along the base of the cliffs. 

Best. Day. Ever.

It occurs to Ellie, as the gravel of the car park makes the transition into golden beach, that her path today is eerily similar to another journey she had once undertaken. The morning heat still radiates from the sand as it shifts slightly under the same dogged steps. The cliffs loom overhead, both protective and menacing in their own ancient way. An uncomfortable, familiar dread is growing in her heart.

Shaking her head, she tries to shed the sense of foreboding that echoes across the years alongside her. Time marches on, she reminds herself. It’s no longer 2012, and the hateful memories have no power over her now. The Ellie Miller of seven years ago would have had a difficult time recognizing the person approaching these cliffs. Physically, she hasn’t changed much, a little older, a few more crinkles around the mouth...nothing too different in the grand scheme of things, but underneath the surface...very little of the old Ellie remains. This Ellie has a very different destination.

It’s not a dead boy and a dying detective, thank heavens. At least she doesn’t have that to look forward to.

She could have done without Becca Fischer,

The blonde woman appears out of nowhere in a swirl of flowers. She flashes her annoyingly perfect teeth at the detective as...something is slipped over Ellie’s head to settle against her chest. A heavy fragrance assaults her senses and she sneezes. 

“You’ve gotten lei-ed,” the blonde chirps. Ellie’s next sneeze is half a snort as she tries to spear Becca with her best impression of Hardy’s ‘we are not amused’ expression. She only partially succeeds. 

“Where’s Fred?” She manages.

Becca’s pretty face twists into something awful for the briefest of moments, before her default expression of pleasant condescension masks it. 

“El,” she simpers in false sympathy, “are you sure you’re all right? Everyone is so worried about you, with Tom leaving, that awful job of yours, and Fred’s…issues.”

Ellie flushes in anger. “I’m doing just fine, thank you. Tom has got a job up in London,“ she huffs. He and Ollie share a flat about half the size of Hardy’s old blue shack, but she’s not going to tell that to Becca Fisher! She tried to get him to come back for the memorial, but he refused. She knew he had purposely moved to get away from all that, but she had hoped that he would have shown for this.

No luck, it seems.

“I love my job, and Fred...Fred is doing better…”

As if on cue, squealing erupts from the far side of the pavilion. A barbecue sauce and sand- slathered Fred streaks past the Reverend and Becca’s perfectly attired twins, followed closely by those new friends of his. The golden-haired three year olds burst into tears as the impromptu chase peppers them with beach stuff. 

“I can see that,” snarks her tormentor, before running to console her sensitive brood. The Reverend just looks lost.

“FRED!” Ellie yells, before he can get too far.

Fred skids to a halt, barely avoiding being run down by his pursuers, and raises guilty eyes to meet hers.

“Yeah?” He blusters.

“Get over here, I need to talk to you.” 

Feet dragging in the sand, shoulders slumped, and a bottom lip sticking out in a a good half inch pout, he complies.

“I need you to gather up everything. I’ve got to go into work and I don’t want you running around out here all by your lonesome.” 

Fred’s face crumpled like an overripe prune and she can see him amping up for one of his infamous explosions…

Just as she’s about to have to physically haul her son off the beach, that older boy places a hand on the younger’s shoulder and all tension seems to bleed away. 

“S’alright, Fred,” the boy, Adam was it? Says. “I’ll fix it.” He turns to Ellie and something about his unwavering regard sends a chill down her spine. Once he begins speaking, however, she’s forgotten she was ever concerned at all.

“Sorry ‘bout that, Miz Miler,” Adam apologizes, “we’d just been eatin’ and Brian asked if Fred could show us the path up on the cliffs. We were gunna get our bikes and peddle over to the Trader’s to pick up some more ice, after, and then my mum said she’d watch us swim for a bit. Does he have to go? We’ll keep an eye on ‘em, no problem.”

Ellie doesn’t even consider arguing. What a nice, responsible, boy Adam is. Of course he’ll take care of Fred, he’d just be underfoot at Hardy’s anyhow. Was there a reason she wanted Fred with her? Hardy is worried over...something, but it’s probably him just being his usual. Man wouldn’t know fun if it bit him on his tiny little arse. Still, she owes it to him to hear him out. No need for Fred to suffer too.

“Well, I suppose that’s ok. Stay away from the edge and wash up a bit while you’re at the Traders. You’ve got sauce on you.” 

Fred agrees and the children take off. Ellie smiles.

Time to find out what Hardy wants.


End file.
